Porridge Play

There’s this kid riding his bike outside my flat with his dad. The dad’s going a little quicker but makes sure to slow down at all the turns to show him which way to go. And I’m wondering if maybe the kid will end up living in this flat after I’ve moved out. Because, well, maybe he’ll remember that he liked riding his bike around here with his dad on the weekends. And maybe he’ll have this image in his head of washing porridge out of his bowl– by the window, like I’m doing– and then he looks out and sees himself going around all the turns again. Or maybe he’ll avoid this whole town for that same reason. Like, it might make him too sad, you know? Because he hasn’t ridden a bike in years, and he might not remember how, and it’s not the same when he sees his dad now. Because he’s never going to have someone to slow down for him again. Derek texts me. Lol most girls are into that

If my phone buzzes again, I don’t notice. My focus is on this bowl—soaked in water and belligerent. A piece of porridge on the edge flicks onto my finger and lingers as a part of my skin. Another message. She tells me to come over in just three words. I sigh. I grab my bag.

“Hey”, She breathes over me at the door. Her hair dribbles onto her shirt like a dog. I trail my hand down her shoulder. The song playing upstairs must be that one we tried to make a promo video for once. She wanted to film herself pinning me against the wall (behind the DJ deck so she could still show it off) while lip syncing. But, after the fifth take, she said I didn’t seem passionate enough and we gave up.

Derek squints her eyes, which I’ve always liked, though my liking is expected and unremarked. I start swaying and walk over to her with my hands on my hips. Maybe it seems attractive. She could dig her fingers in and squash my stomach to pulp like a juice with no-added-sugar. They slot in and out of my spine then around my legs and hips, so I might forget I was there and not just a pile of these hands. I go to remove my top, but she stops me.

“Let me, baby”. Her mouth moves really weird when she speaks. Like, her lips gasp open to make that rounded ‘a’ sound, then knead back. There are things her lips might’ve touched before mine. Not just other women, but weird things too. Like her spoon at breakfast. Or her toothbrush when she was pulling it out from her mouth. The tip of her thumb, any thumb.

The lamp turns sickly or sweaty or teary. But I swear, just there, I see it. Right below her eye. A small, crusted up piece of porridge.

“Sorry, can we stop.”

I sit upright and she mumbles, You alright?

“Yeah, fine. I just remembered I have to do laundry. Gotta get back.” I say, missing the arm hole of my coat.

Far from her house, she’s on my back and pushing the bones all back together. Her shoulders are so much wider than mine. I wonder if they could hold us both up if I snuck my body in underneath them.

By Tuesday, I don’t miss Derek, but my routine feels strange without her. I have toast and can’t think what to put on it. I know she hates tasting marmalade on my lips, but if I’m not seeing her does it matter? Do I want marmalade? What does marmalade even taste like? And what if porridge makes me somewhere else again? That’s why I message her, I think. Because otherwise, my breakfast choices get too complex.

In the doorway, she looks at me. Doesn’t smirk, or wink, or bite her lip, just motions me in with a nod. She says how’veyoubeen, leaning against the kitchen sink. I go to play with her fingers and blink like a cartoon character. She clears her throat, startled, like I’ve never done this before. “You want something to eat?” I drop her hand.

“What are you doing?”

“What?”

“No, don’t. What are you doing?”

“Can we go sit down or something?” she’s already going over to the sofa. “Tell me how your week has been.”

I don’t know why she’s doing this. I wish she’d stop.

“It was fine. I went to work.” I’m about to start arguing again when she sighs and drops her head.

“My snail died on Tuesday.”

“You have a snail?”

“Had.” She glares. “Yeah, his name was Gary. You know, like in SpongeBob. Good show, innit? Love SpongeBob. But yeah. So, Gary died, and you freaked out on me the same day. Which is fine. But you didn’t message for a while, and I missed Gary, and then I missed you, and yeah…”

“Oh, right. Sorry about your snail. And me.”

She laughs a little, “You needed a minute, I guess”.

She puts her arm around me. It’s kind of awkward. I don’t know what I’m meant to do when she just touches like this. I assume she’s thinking about Gary, so I try doing the same. I imagine them together, Derek stroking his little shell while he’s perched on a leaf. She hands me some toast that I didn’t notice was sitting on her lap and I wonder if this is what it’s like to be her friend. Sitting silently on her sofa, eating toast and reminiscing about a snail I never knew.

She holds me then, the way she usually does, her hands lapping over and squashing the skin. She cradles me just like that, like a sick animal.

When I get home, I stretch out in the bath and picture things.

Derek is in front of me. Our legs knock into each other with how fast the water’s moving. We laugh because we’re together, looking at each other with our eyeballs jumping around inside our heads and our sweat mixing together.

Then it twists around and I’m a snail at the bottom of the bath. She scoops me up and plays with my slime, starts to wash herself with it, lathering and rinsing her hair in mucus.

When I get home, it feels like my body is taking up too much space in the bath.

My legs sprawl out to all the edges, so no one else would fit. I take a look at the pile of clothes on the toilet seat. All the folds make them look really tall. My jumper is three folds high, which looks like three jumpers high, which looks like three people high– if one person should fit in each jumper. And it’s red. So is my skin. My chest has this blotchy pattern and there are polka dots are on my knees.

When I get home, I’m standing in front of the washing machine and my body is red and old like a jumper.

I’ve spilt porridge all down my front and it’s staining onto me. The oats are getting musky and thick in my throat. I remember the swimming lessons I used to do in Basildon when I was 10. My limbs glide away from their joints. I suppose all the walking I’ve done must have made them slippery at the hinges.

First, it’s a finger. I wiggle it around at the knuckle, then it slips right off. I toss it into the machine along with a capsule. That’ll get the colour off.

As I throw it in, a few more come out and they bump into each other at the bottom of the drum. After they wiggle around for a while, I realise that I’ve lost their mobility. I squint and try to home in on the thing in my brain that makes them move. But it’s not there anymore.

The feet tickle when they come off and it makes me wobble, landing me flat on my ass. I giggle around the foot hanging out of my mouth while ripping off the other one.

The legs are quite satisfying to pull out. There’s a gentle pop at the hip when each one detaches and slides out from the pelvis like Lego pieces. Though for my chest, I have to lie down and use my hand on the front and elbow on the back to pry it off. I worry about twisting my neck as I throw myself around to detach it, but it does come off just like the rest. The spine leaves separately, flowing out with little pieces of bone in the pool of liquids that’s underneath me. I hold my arms by the wrist like an injured animal and tip my head towards the machine to deposit them with the rest of their family.

Just my head left. Using the force of my neck, I tip forwards to propel it into the machine. It thuds. My head seems to be too low down and only hits the edge of the machine. I realise, suddenly, that someone could find me here with my hair swimming in my own insides. The knots floating up with pieces of broken bone and bits of flesh. The skin, so wrinkled and twisted up. I kind of want to cry.

But it’s time to press on. I look around to find a way for my head to join my body. There’s a wooden spoon on the floor. Perfect. I chomp down, lodging my teeth into the wood. I use them to create little bumps in the spoon, making my own rock-climbing wall to pull myself up the handle. Halfway up, my jaw creaks. I feel as though the veins in my neck may fall out, and I realise I don’t have the strength to keep climbing. One of my teeth chips as I give another chomp and it falls to the pool below then swims away from me.

I drop down from the spoon and look at my body. It needs me. I wonder briefly how Derek would feel if she saw me like this. I want to say she’d hold my head in her hands, kiss my cheek and toss me in. But I don’t think so.

When it was sunny in the Easter holidays, I used to take my dog out to the corner shop, buy an ice-cream cone and walk up to the beach. I thought it was very grown up to tie her lead onto the bike rack. My dad would be texting me the whole time, making sure I was crossing safely. Once the dog got older, she’d be too tired for the beach, so dad would drive us up there and watch me run alongside her from the car. I always got a cone with caramel drizzle. Whenever it rained, I read my Katy Perry autobiography on the sofa. On Sundays I watched Pride and Prejudice on VHS tape. Even if it was warm, I always wore my school jumper.

With my last bit of strength, I topple over and headbutt the machine closed. I use the spoon to reach the on button. My body spins.

The wrist holds a hip then lets go. A piece of tummy decides to swirl around with little pieces of fingers and toes. I start to miss my stomach. The way it would fill and empty, the squeeze of my ribs in a hug, the heaving when I breath or sing or vomit out leaves and mud and birthday cake.

Legs and arms fold into each other. Knees bob up and down like floaties and eventually they all go so fast they blend into each other. The suds take over and I can’t see my body anymore. I can’t see my body anymore.